Dean Dolittle
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Dog Dean Afternoon tag story: Dean wants to do the ritual again. Sam's leery of that...and he's not wrong.


**Dean Dolittle**  
 **K Hanna Korossy**

It was quiet in the car: music off, empty roads speeding by, Dean deep in thought. Sam figured he was still processing that he'd been talking to animals just hours before. It had to have been mind-boggling.

Kinda like knowing, _knowing_ your throat had been ripped open, but waking up without a scratch even though you're soaked in blood. And the bad guy staring at you in awe, asking, _What are you?_

Sam would've liked to have known the answer to that himself.

His hand strayed up yet again to touch the side of his neck, feeling the unbroken skin. He'd washed up at the restaurant and changed shirts—at least as much because of the way Dean kept looking at him as to feel clean—and there was no sign left of what should've been a mortal injury. One his brother didn't want to discuss.

He glanced at Dean, seeing his furrowed brow. Maybe he was actually wondering what Sam was, too.

In sync as they usually were even when they didn't want to acknowledge it, Dean pulled in a breath, threw him a look, and spoke.

"I think we should do the ritual again."

…Okay, so maybe he hadn't been thinking about Sam's apparent non-brush with death. Sam tried to switch gears. "Uh…what?" With marginal success.

"The Dr. Dolittle spell—I wanna do it again."

Sam twisted so he was planted in the corner of the seat and could look at his idiot brother squarely. "Because…?"

Dean's face twitched, hand going to the back of his neck, one of his nervous tells. This was serious then. "That last talk I had with the Colonel. He basically called me an 'honorary dog,' and said I should probably know some big secret about dogs, about why they're here."

Sam blinked. Dean had neglected to mention that little detail. "You mean like the dog shapeshifters? The sleeper cells?"

Dean's head bobbed; clearly he'd thought of that, too. "I don't think so? I mean, he was talking like it was all dogs, everywhere."

"So, like, the millions of dogs across the planet have some…secret agenda?" Sam snorted. "That's not ominous."

"Right? So I think I should talk to them. Not the colonel, but another dog, see what I can find out."

"Or what I can find out," Sam said pointedly.

Dean eased the car around a slow pick-up, but that didn't distract him from his answer. "No, I'll do it."

Sam frowned, opening his mouth.

"Dude, you've got a concussion. Your brain's scrambled enough."

"I feel fine!" He raised and dropped his arms in frustration. That was actually the point: he felt completely fine, no blood-loss symptoms, no concussion symptoms, nothing.

"You were out for, like, ten minutes," Dean argued back. "Pretty much the definition of a concussion."

He wasn't wrong, but… Sam huffed in frustration, resisting the urge to childishly cross his arms. "Dude, we don't know if this thing has cumulative effects. I mean, last time you were scratching and playing fetch and _growling at the letter carrier._ For all we know, next you'll be going on all fours and licking your balls."

Dean brightened.

"Dean!" Sam snapped.

His brother hunkered down, chastened. "Okay, I know, I get it. But you don't know it's gonna do that—I mean, I'm totally back to normal now." Sam couldn't resist an opening like that, but even as he perked up, Dean shut him down with a glare. Man, they really did know each other too well. "And we need to find out more about this, right?"

"We could wait a week," Sam said reluctantly. "Then I can do it."

"Or we could just do it now while we've got all the stuff for it." Dean being the very model of common sense was just disturbing.

"And if you turn into a dog permanently?" Sam asked acidly.

His brother threw him a grin. "Then you get me one of those cool collars with the spikes on it and I start riding with the window down."

And, once again, Dean won the "we can risk me but not you" argument.

It was a pity he wasn't the one with the magical healing properties, because Sam really, really wanted to punch him.

00000

"I'm not sure about this," Sam said as he mixed the thermos of, frankly, putrid-smelling stuff.

They were parked on the main strip of downtown Lebanon. Sam had argued for doing the ritual in the bunker, just in case, but Dean had pointed out logically that they had no dog hair in the bunker, and no one would look twice at a guy in a car drinking from a thermos and talking to his brother. Sam hated it when his brother was logical.

Dean dropped in the pinch of hair and made a face at the maroon liquid. "Well, I am, and I'm the one drinking it."

"Right," Sam drawled, "because what one of us does never affects the other."

He saw that hit, and Dean pause. "Sam—"

"Three days," Sam pressed the advantage. "Just give me three days to make sure I'm good and then I'll do it. And you'll get to make fun of me for wanting to…howl at the moon and feed the rat in the dungeon."

Dean's eyes widened. "The what?"

Uh… "If there was one," Sam said quickly. Dean hated rats with a passion he usually reserved for demons. "Just…let me take a turn, okay?"

His brother was studying him with that soft look that made it seem like he was seeing a much younger Sammy than the adult sitting next to him. It was both touching and exasperating. All Sam saw when he looked at his brother was the complicated mix of protector and softie, tough guy and moron, that was all he could ever remember seeing in Dean. Dean would always be his big brother, while Sam knew he himself vacillated between little brother and partner in Dean's eyes. He'd resented that when he was younger, before life had piled on the lessons about how fortunate he was to have a Dean.

There was something else in his brother's look now, though, something fearful and maybe even guilty that Sam figured came from the Trials nearly killing him, and that bothered him a lot more. He remembered again Chef Leo's, _I want to know what you are,_ and wondered again if Dean felt the same way.

"Don't ask me that, Sammy."

Startled, he turned his attention back to Dean. Who had his own set of…well, not puppy dog eyes, ironically, but a pleading look that was all the more effective for being rarely used. He got defensive when Dean ordered and dismissed, but when he asked?

"I know you feel fine, but you're still gettin' better. Let me do this," Dean followed with the metaphorical knock-out punch.

Sam gusted out a breath, just resisting rolling his eyes. He knew when he was beat. "Yeah, okay. Fine. Go…be a dog again."

Dean looked appropriately grateful…and also a little gleeful. "Awesome. You got the spell?"

Sam held up the paper. "You sure we shouldn't go back to the Colonel?"

"Dude, Blue and I are old buddies." He waved at the street over Sam's shoulder, but Sam already knew he was talking about the retired K-9 that now guarded Lebanon's hardware store. His brother thought he was being stealthy, slipping a dog treat into his pocket every time he went to town for supplies, but they had few secrets from each other now. Including that Dean had bought the treats especially for Blue, and tried one them once and liked it.

Sam sighed and handed over the thermos.

Dean didn't hesitate to drink it down and rattle off the few Inuit words. Then immediately start crunching on the peanut M&Ms he'd brought with him to take away the taste. He'd learned from last time.

Sam just hoped they'd learned enough. "You know chocolate's poisonous to dogs, right?"

Dean startled, then made a face. "I'm not actually turning into a dog." But he stopped chewing, giving the candy an uncertain look.

"Yet," Sam muttered under his breath. He stole a few M&Ms, ignoring his brother's scowl. "Okay, so, last time it took about, what, ten minutes to work?"

"Yeah, about." Dean had forgotten about the M&Ms and sounded distracted now, gazing through the windshield.

Sam didn't see anything. "You want to wait here, or take a walk?"

"Hmm?" Dean's gaze strayed to him, mind clearly still elsewhere.

"While we wait," Sam said, watching closely. Was the spell taking effect already? "You want to stay here, or go warm up Blue?"

"Oh. Uh, we can go. 'S just…" He was pulled to the windshield again.

"What?" Sam asked carefully. He was already regretting this.

"Nothing." Dean shook his head more certainly, and Sam could see his brother reappear in the hazel eyes. "Nothing, I'm…good." He stuffed the M&Ms in his pocket and reached for the door.

Sam followed him out, pausing briefly when a cat came into view far down the way Dean had been staring. Tamping down the creeping unease that things were happening too quickly, Sam hurried after his brother, feeling oddly like he was trailing a bloodhound.

Dean made his way to the hardware store, but with a lot of detours. He stopped to sniff by dumpsters, peered, quivering, at squirrels racing by, and three times paused to stare at something Sam couldn't see.

Just liked he'd feared, the spell was obviously taking hold faster and stronger than before. But all they could do was ride it out now.

Blue was waiting in the open hardware store door. Dean had gotten the dog hair from him not ten minutes before, and he'd apparently known Dean would be back. He whined low when he saw the Winchesters, and sniffed hard at Dean's shoes.

Dean crouched down, and Sam could see him sniffing back, Blue's nose, his ear, leaning around to—

"Dean," he snapped.

Blue and Dean gave him identical surprised looks. He was pretty sure if his brother's ears could flatten back, they would have.

"No sniffing…there," Sam hissed more quietly. He glanced quickly into the shop, relieved to see Blue's owner busy in an aisle with a customer. The last thing they needed was Dean banned from the store for inappropriate contact with a dog.

Sam groaned to himself, even as Dean started talking to Blue, telling him what was happening, what they needed. Blue looked like he was listening intently.

And then they were staring at each other in silence, Dean's hand frozen where it had been scratching under Blue's collar. The weird animal telepathy he wasn't privy to, Sam figured, just like last time.

Ten seconds went by, then twenty. Dean stiffened, but he didn't look away. Thirty seconds. Both man and dog barely twitched, breathing together in silence.

"Dean!" Sam finally said, just as footsteps approached.

"Can I help you fellas?" Mr. Hodges, owner of Blue and the hardware store.

Blue whined softly, and Sam could hear a faint echo out of his brother.

Enough was enough. He hooked an arm under Dean's and hauled him to his feet. "We were just saying hi to Blue. Dean, man, you ready?"

"Y-yeah?" He looked like he wasn't sure, or wasn't sure of the word.

Clenching his teeth together behind a rigid smile, Sam nodded at the perplexed Hodges and frog-marched his brother away. "Dean? You with me?"

"Sssam." The effort it took just to say his name dumped another load of ice water in Sam's veins.

"We're going home," he said firmly. And winced when Dean looked pathetically, doggily grateful.

00000

It was not a fun trip home.

Dean seemed confused, but no amount of Sam talking to him and coaxing him elicited any more words. Instead he stuck his head out the window Sam pulled down for him, sometimes whined and sometimes growled softly in his throat, and once pressed the top of his head against Sam's shoulder, like he wanted… Sam actually didn't want to think about what he wanted. He didn't want to think about this at all.

But when Dean got out in front of the bunker, sniffed the air, then started to unbutton his pants, it was more than Sam could ignore. He was the one growling as he grabbed his sibling and towed him inside. "You are _not_ marking your territory."

Dean contritely nudged him again with his head, and Sam deflated, realizing his brother had already done so—without the pee, thank God—with him.

"Okay, I get it. Let's just…get you inside and we'll figure this out."

At least Dean was still walking okay on two legs; the changes didn't seem to be physical, besides maybe an augmented sense of smell. And maybe he was colorblind now, too? Sam would have to ask him when he was himself again instead of dog-Dean.

For now, he parked Dean in one of the library chairs and pulled another seat in close facing him. "Dean? Can you understand me?"

Dean cocked his head, making Sam's heart sink, but then nodded. Carefully, like it took effort, but still.

"Okay. Okay, good. Can you talk?"

Dean clearly tried. Opened his mouth a few times, made some sounds that were maybe letters but definitely not words and probably not quite human. Then growled in frustration.

"All right, that's okay, don't worry about it," Sam said quickly, hands up placatingly. "Spell winds down in about 36 hours, right? You just gotta get to tomorrow night."

Dean gave him a narrow-eyed look, scratching the side of his head while his tongue swiped over his lips…and stayed out.

Sam didn't know if he should laugh and take pictures, or panic and start looking for counter-spells. But there was no reason to think this wouldn't wear off like it had the last time. "Even if it takes longer, it's gonna be okay, all right? You're not staying this way, I promise."

Dean looked like he might lick him. And even as Sam started to pull away, his brother leaned in…and rubbed his forehead against Sam's chest.

Sam sighed, dropping a hand on Dean's neck and just holding him there a moment. Trusting and loyal and loving: Dean the dog wasn't that far from Dean the person, just a little more demonstrative about it. And truth be told, Sam didn't mind that part so much.

00000

The time would've gone slower if it didn't turn out that dog-Dean slept as much as a real dog.

Sam fried up some hamburgers while his brother watched, literally salivating over every move. Dean ended up eating three patties, turning his nose up at the bread and trimmings. Considering onions were bad for dogs, Sam was just as happy not to have to worry about that, at least.

Then Dean circled twice and started to sit down on the floor in front of the couch, before Sam patted the cushion invitingly. His brother quickly curled up on one end of the couch, and slept until dinner.

Half a rotisserie chicken. No sides.

"Dude, you're not a dog—you need vegetables."

Dean looked at him quizzically, and Sam had no idea if it was his brother or the dog staring at him. At least Dean was using his hands, not just sticking his nose into the plate. Although his table manners were even worse than usual.

They both ended up on the couch in front of the TV after dinner, Sam putting on the new version of _The Great Gatsby_ he'd wanted to see and Dean hadn't. Dean huffed, the sound equally at home in a settling canine or an exasperated brother, and wedged himself in next to Sam. He promptly went to sleep, head tucked against Sam's leg. Sam's hand rested on his nape, where they could both pretend it had landed by accident.

It wasn't an unpleasant way to spend an evening.

He considered drawing the line when he finally clicked the TV off and headed to bed, only to find Dean sleepily trailing after him into his room.

"Seriously, man?" he asked.

Dean looked sheepish, and Sam could swear he whined.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You know this is weird, right?"

Dean scratched the side of his neck and pointedly looked elsewhere.

Sam sighed. Well, it wasn't weirder than Sam himself turning into a car, really, or splitting into three parts after Hell, or swapping bodies with a hormonal teenager. Kind of par for their course. "Fine, whatever. Just…no licking. Or shedding."

Dean gave him a very human look of disgust at that.

By the time Sam got back from the bathroom, Dean was fast asleep on top of the covers on the far side of the bed, knees tucked almost to his chin.

Sam wanted to scoff as he pulled off his brother's boots and threw a blanket over him, but found himself grinning instead.

Neither of them had nightmares that night. Though that could have been coincidence.

Dean still wasn't talking in the morning, although he gave careful nods or shakes of the head to Sam's questions about whether he felt okay, if anything had changed, and what he wanted for breakfast.

They were halfway through cooking up a package of breakfast sausage, Dean again glued to Sam's side, when his brother's head suddenly shot up. Before Sam could ask him what was wrong, Dean was down on all fours, half inside a cabinet, rooting for something.

"Dean, what the—?"

There was a squeak, then Dean triumphantly backed out, a mouse hanging by the tail from his hand. The mouse continued to squeak, and Dean narrowed his eyes at it.

"Uh…" Okay, yes, this was weird, even for them. "Don't eat it, okay?"

Dean gave him an affronted look.

"Right. Uh. We could let it go? Outside?"

That perked his brother up. He loped out of the kitchen, mouse in hand, and up the stairs to the front door.

Sam shoved the sausage onto a cold burner and hurried after him.

The mouse was already gone by the time he joined Dean outside. When his brother reached for the button on his jeans again, though, Sam threw up his hands and retreated inside. Hardly anyone ever went down their road, but if Dean was arrested for public indecency, Sam didn't want to know about it.

He peered cautiously outside again when breakfast was ready, relieved to find Dean fully clothed. And in some kind of argument with a squirrel sitting on a low branch.

It chattered at him; Dean growled back. More chattering. Dean bared his teeth. A final dismissive hiss, and the squirrel raced up the tree. Dean kicked some dirt at the trunk.

Apparently there were no animals Dean got along with besides dogs. Somehow, Sam wasn't surprised.

After inhaling most of the package of sausages—he reluctantly allowed Sam two—Dean went back to sleep on the sofa.

Sam did some research on the Inuit spell, just in case. Everything still pointed to it expiring on its own. No mention was made of repeat usages; the Inuits probably figured no one would be stupid enough to do so.

It was harder to wake Dean for lunch. When the smell of Bobby's chili recipe didn't do it, Sam went to shake him awake, but Dean just stared at him groggily. He followed Sam's tug to the table and cleaned his bowl, but his eyes never cleared.

"Dean?"

He looked up at Sam, mouth turned down, eyes…sad?

"Hey, what's wrong?" He leaned in closer to feel for fever, check pulse.

Dean sniffed at his hand, then leaned into it, making a mournful sound low in his throat.

Sam froze, the sausages queasy in his stomach. _What are you?_ echoed in his head. Dogs could smell things humans couldn't; Dean had said he could smell Chef Leo's cancer. It hadn't occurred to Sam that maybe he would sense something different in Sam.

"Is it…? Am I…wrong?"

Dean's eyebrows drew together and he gave an angry huff.

"Then…" Sam gusted a sigh. "Is it you? Are you getting worse?"

Dean thought for a moment, then shook his head, just a little.

"Okay." Sam cupped the back of Dean's neck, thinking. "Okay, so…maybe you're just starting to change back and…it's confusing, right? I mean, dog brain versus human brain? Not like it's a big difference in your case, but—"

Dean head-butted him in the shoulder.

"Ow! Cut it out or I'm sticking you in the dungeon with Crowley."

Dean growled at him, all his teeth showing.

"All right, all right. I think it's just, you know, the spell wearing off. It'll pass soon. Right?"

A cocked head, which Sam guessed was a canine shrug.

He sighed. And tried not to flinch when Dean sniffed him again, and once more looked doleful. "It's me. I smell different, don't I? From the Trials?"

Dean just looked at him, eyes round with so much affection and concern that Sam felt his throat clog.

"Okay," he said quietly, and rubbed at the short hair at Dean's nape. "I'm all right, man, okay? It's gonna be all right." The hopeful lie they'd always told each other, because maybe if one of them said it, it would be true. And Dean wasn't going to be telling him different now.

Sam cleaned up the lunch fixings in silence. And when Dean shadowed him out into the library like, well, an abandoned puppy, Sam just grabbed a book and led him to the couch. He read, and thought, while Dean pressed against his side and fell asleep, first restless, then silent and still.

Sam dropped the Agatha Christie into his lap and rubbed both hands down his face. He'd expected the distractibility, the sniffing, maybe even the sleepy affection. But he hadn't been prepared for…this.

It wasn't the first time it had occurred to him how dog-like his brother could be: faithful even to those who hurt him, protective, trusting. But all that was usually well-hidden under layers of humor and bluster and pragmatism. This version of Dean didn't have any of that armor, and his naked adoration and clinginess was as disconcerting as it was affecting.

Sam had always been the one drawn to animals. Hope had sprung eternal that every stray he'd dragged home as a kid would be different, that this would be the one John would let them keep. Dean had helped him feed or clean or find homes for the cats and dogs and mice and one injured squirrel, but he'd never advocated for keeping them, quietly softening their dad's nos. Sam had always thought his brother was just being the good son, the obedient soldier. But maybe it had been that he just couldn't afford to fall in love with something else. He loved too completely to risk it.

It was both humbling and frightening to be loved like that. Sam didn't always want the responsibility, doubted he deserved it, and worried he couldn't match it.

But that was Dean: all or nothing. And Sam feared the nothing far more than the all.

He ended up dozing off himself without realizing it, arm curled around his brother's side, dreaming of wrestling and racing in the sun.

00000

" _Sam."_

His name, Dean's urgent tone, and the unease that had followed him into his dreams, all sank through layers of sleep to hook into him and yank him up.

 _"Sam! What the—?"_

He rolled his head along the back of the couch to open one eye at his brother, sitting perplexed beside him. Dean's hair was mashed on one side, fluffed on the other, and he had a line of dried drool on his cheek. Sam's face cracked into a grin.

Recollection dawned, and Dean grimaced. "Dog?"

"Dog," Sam affirmed, yawning as he stretched. Still smiling when he noticed Dean doing the same, scratching idly at his hair and side as he did.

"Awesome," Dean said sourly. "Wait, why can't I remember anything this time?"

Sam straightened, amusement fading. "You don't remember?"

"Uh." Dean found the flaking drool and rubbed at it with disgust. "Sort of? I mean, I remember being in town and coming home and you, you're a better cook than I thought—you've been holding out on me. But it was…confusing. Like I knew what was going on and what you were saying but couldn't figure out how to talk back."

Sam frowned. "You talked to Blue—you remember what he said?"

Dean was clearly searching his memory, his crestfallen look making plain his lack of success. "No. I mean…I sorta remember it wasn't…you know, end-of-the-world kinda news, but I don't know what he said." He swore. "We should go back to—"

"Dean." He held up a hand, then both for good measure. "Dude. You forgot how to _talk_ this time. You wanted to sleep on the floor, and on my bed. You caught a mouse and _peed_ on the bunker. We are not trying this again."

Dean's face went through a comic series of expressions, from denial to embarrassment to defiance. He finally seemed to settle on grudging agreement. "Okay, fine."

"I mean, you said there wasn't a real threat, right?" Sam clarified.

"Pretty sure."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "'Pretty sure'?"

Dean grimaced. "Really pretty sure?"

He sighed. "Okay, whatever, I want my bed back—I'm calling that good."

Dean flopped back against the cushions with a huff. "Great, all that for nothing. Thanks a lot, Eskimo dudes."

Sam shook his head, but he'd long given up on trying to amend his brother. But… He hesitated, took the plunge. "Hey, uh… A couple of times, it looked like you were…you know, smelling me, and like you smelled something…off."

"You mean like that girly shampoo you use?" Dean shot back, but he was clearly avoiding Sam's eyes.

"Seriously. Was there something…different about me?"

Dean gave him a sidelong look. "What, like what Chef Leo said? I told you, the guy was a few fries short of a Happy Meal—he didn't know what he was talking about."

Sam was already shaking his head again. "No, like…why he practically sliced my throat open and later there wasn't even a mark."

"You thought he got you but he didn't—case closed," Dean said dismissively, then craned his head toward the kitchen. "I need a beer."

" _Dean_ ," Sam insisted.

Dean pulled a face but settled back. He made a resigned noise. "It wasn't anything like that, okay? I remember it was… You smelled…burnt. Like the Trials fried you inside. I mean," he quickly continued at seeing Sam's shock, "not like you're dying, okay? Old damage. Healing, but," his head hung and he shrugged. "Like I said, you're still not one-hundred percent."

 _Burnt._ He had thought the Trials were purifying him, but _burnt_ was more…vivid than he'd been picturing. Sam swallowed. "How did I survive that? I mean, I feel _fine._ I think I lose time sometimes, but when I wake up, I feel good. Better than I should, even, after what Chef Leo or Abaddon's demons did." He focused on Dean. "You sure you didn't…?"

"I didn't," Dean said flatly. "No more deals. Help is fine where we can get it, but I'm not auctioning off my soul again." He looked like he meant it completely.

He also looked troubled.

Sam sat back. This wasn't getting them anywhere, except worrying Dean even more than he already was. Sam finally shrugged it off. "Yeah, all right." He rubbed his face. "You wanna go out for dinner? I think I grilled all the meat we had in the freezer in the last two days."

Dean gave him a smile that was almost canine. "Dude, I've got meat hidden where you'd _never_ look." Off Sam's amused look, he colored and shoved his brother. "Shut up, you know what I mean."

"Okay, but after dinner, we're goin' out, even if it's just for a walk. I've been cooped up with your fleabitten ass for two days."

"I don't have _fleas_ ," Dean said, outraged. He paused, smirked. "Fine. But I'm not gonna play fetch."

Sam grinned at him as he pushed to his feet. "You know among us humans that's just called 'playing ball.'"

Dean grouchily told him what he could do with the ball as he looked up at Sam from where he was still sprawled on the couch.

And then with a wolfish grin, he nuzzled Sam's side before rising and padding toward the kitchen.

"Might want to check your hair, too," Sam called after him.

Dean's hands immediately went to his head, and his _"Son of a bitch!"_ floated back from the other room.

Sniffing with amusement and a tilt of the head, Sam started to go after Dean…then stopped. His pocketknife was still sitting on the coffee table where he'd put it earlier when Dean was mashed uncomfortably against his jeans pocket. Sam picked it up now and flicked the blade open, giving it a long look. It was one thing he hadn't tried. It couldn't hurt, right? Well, not much.

He shoved his shirt up his forearm, and nicked the skin halfway between elbow and wrist, where it wouldn't show.

Blood beaded and trickled down his arm, where Sam hastily wiped it with a handkerchief from his other pocket. He watched carefully, wiping whenever the blood threatened to drip, but otherwise not touching the wound.

It eventually stopped welling with fresh blood, but it didn't disappear or show any sign of unnatural healing.

Pressing his lips together, Sam clamped the handkerchief down until he was convinced it wouldn't stain his shirt, and tugged his sleeve down.

 _"You comin'?"_ Dean called from the kitchen, and Sam gave a guilty start.

"Yeah." He cleared his rough throat. "Be right there."

Maybe he really was imagining things. Or maybe it was just the aftereffects of the Trials, like Dean said. He'd feel better if his brother wasn't so clearly still worried about him, but… Dean had sworn, no more deals. And Sam had to trust his brother. After the church, and the angel falls, and everything else they'd been through, he had nothing else.

The smell of grilled meat was starting to waft through the bunker, and Sam snorted a laugh in spite of himself. Figured: thirty-plus hours of complete carnivorousness, and his brother still wanted a steak. There really wasn't a big difference: dog or Dean. Sam would have to get some Milk-Bones on their next supply run, razz him at least a little about it. Though Dean would probably eat them with relish.

 _Burnt._

Smile fading, Sam headed toward the kitchen and the now less-than-appetizing scents. He didn't care what Dean ate; Sam would fetch him all the hot dogs and burgers he wanted. He just wanted to stick close to his brother.

Just in case Chef Leo hadn't been completely wrong.

 **The End**


End file.
